I need to write when I need to. I don't have any other words that can describe the equation. Many ideas come to my head when I'm staring at the sink, my nose is bleeding, and the water is running. Other ideas knock my bathroom door when I am taking a shower. It is as if the water that pours down aggressively discharges a boastful river. Every drop that falls down laments the death of thought. I can't step out of the bathroom, grab a pen, and start writing. I don't know why this sensation of being underwater or close to it flusters my creativity. My thoughts are like hares on a field. Peacefully, carelessly, they feed and sunbathe. The next second, they are assaulted by the sound of a gunshot, and so they run away, they scatter into the endless horizon. They hide, the thing is that I don't know if I will ever be able to find them again, at least with the same purity. I have been thinking about words lately.
How they come together, they have the power to give us tremendous joy or bring us to our knees, send us to bed for days. How they cling heavily to the mind, how their weight, in a very delicate manner, spins around our ankles to tie a knot impossible to set free. They can lift you up or bring you to a depth that will forever remain unknown. Of course, words allow you to find middle-grounds and grey areas. It can be easy or very strenuous. I find it thrilling and frightening to think that words can make you step into the door or leave at any given second. Do words actually bring you inside or outside? My body, the frame that constitutes my existence, is determined by sound. Words uttered by others or printed on paper. They move swiftly. How do they know what buttons to press or ignore? Do I assimilate them consciously? Language is one of the things that, according to many people, distinguishes us from animals. And yet, communication is taken lightly. I don't think people are really aware of the power behind words. Maybe that's the reason why reading between the lines is a hard exercise, and often we don't make the effort to complete it. If we sat down, just for a moment, to think about the influence words have over us, we could avoid many inconveniences. A faux-pas could be dodged. Apologies wouldn't see the light of day. Words and thoughts go together, it sounds like an obvious statement. Then, why is it so hard to master a successful relationship between what we say, what we mean, and what we think? If we look at a sentence, the construction is fairly simple. A subject, a verb, and a complement. Everything we say and think is directed towards something or someone. People may say that we have infinite ways to communicate. Music, art, and even silences. I think we tend to forget that any kind of communication is an experience that involves the senses. Talking is taken for granted. My voice has an identity that can be taken away from me. Is there originality? A song by Jack White comes to mind, Temporary Ground. This particular verse struck me: The old explorers had it easy, They discovered nothing new, But returned on home with answers Of sad existent clues.
Words change all the time. We notice it, we don't. A word has different meanings, varying from person to person, perhaps a sentimental attachment. Maybe that's the reason why words that come from the people we love have such an effect. The combination of words can give you a headache. When writing essays, a poem, even a simple text, there is a useful piece of advice: let it rest, let it sleep for a couple of days. Translating thoughts into words is arduous.
Something that made sense can lose its meaning a couple of days later. The words chosen to express something can be robbed of their essence within minutes. Why do we memorize lyrics so quickly? Why do the words of an author adhere to our minds so rapidly? Are we keeping track of every influence that silently climbs our heads? I don't think we do, and that's why I believe thinking is both an active and a passive exercise.
Robert Indiana, Love (sculpture), the original rendering of the 1970's sculpture is at The Indianapolis Museum of Art.
Robert Indiana, HOPE, 2008. Variations, the original was unveiled outside Denver's Pepsi Center.
Robert Indiana, AHAVA (love in Hebrew), 2008. Jerusalem, The Israel Museum.
Visibility. Words don't exist as objects do. Unless they are brought to a physical form, words live in the ether. Nevertheless, they have established the formations of everything we know and aspire to reach. Something that belongs to an uncharted and molting region has the power to define life. Another song that seems to revolve around this issue is What's Up by 4 Non Blondes: I realized quickly when I knew I should The world was made up of this brotherhood of man, For whatever that means. And so I cry sometimes When I'm lying in bed just to get it all out What's in my head And I, I am feeling a little peculiar.
I just saw the smoke in my room head out towards the window into nothingness. It was here for a moment blurring my sight, now it is gone. This serves as a good comparison for what I am trying to articulate. Every time we try to express something, a curtain is either lifted or clobbered down. Even though we were able to hear or observe, this short and impressionable lapse has carved a trace within. We run from language to find out that we have lost the race because thoughts and words are the executioners, the paths, and the results. In the end, I don't need to write when I need to, it is a commitment to an urge, a breathing, living, infuriating, and feverish urge. MLGT.
Self-made illustration for the text (March 31st, 2020).